Eyes of a Corpse
by issyrocks1383
Summary: John's days on the streets. "He blinked and just stared at her. It wasn't an angry stare. But it wasn't kind either. In fact, it lacked life at all. She felt like she was looking into the eyes of a dead corpse." May be a series of one shots.
1. Chapter 1

He was suffering from a hangover when Joan had first met him.

An empty bottle stood next to his slumped sitting figure, his back too used to the cold hard concrete under it. At first glance, he had a look of a sleeping homeless man. No one would take notice of the liquor bottles that surrounded him since there was too much trash around to take in. The eye immediately fell on the mop of dark hair that was bowed downward in unconscious defeat. The man was wrapped in a worn patchwork quilt that looked too good for someone like him to own. His toes poked out of ancient loafers, revealing dirty nails and dry skin.

Joan slowly inched toward him. Her bags crinkled in her hands as she approached. She had been watching this spot for a couple weeks and this man always seemed to be there, in the same position. Gradually she began to suspect that he was dead. Yet there was a different bottle next to him every day. Today it was a half full bottle of Jack. Yesterday's vodka bottle was shattered in pieces in front of him. The only thing that reminded intact was the neck.

"Hello?" A breeze drove through the alley as she leaned closer to the ragdoll of a human. He appeared to be breathing but slower than was normal. Joan hesitated before giving his upper arm a nervous poke.

The head twitched a bit, almost like a muted flinch. But it remained down, chin buried into his chest.

She poked him again. She wasn't sure why she wanted to wake him up. Probably because she had been studying him for a while and couldn't help feel pity for someone who seemed to just exist. Most of the homeless she lived with had hobbies like music, dance, something that kept them occupied from diving into the reasons why they were there. This man had alcohol instead.

Slowly the head rose and she took in the bush of hair that was growing on him like a wildfire. The only sign that the grizzly bear before her was human were the two piercing eyes that were looking at her. They were gazed with the influence of booze but the color was unique.

"Hey. You hungry?"

He blinked and just stared at her. It wasn't an angry stare. But it wasn't kind either. In fact, it lacked life at all. She felt like she was looking into the eyes of a dead corpse.

Her hands rustled against the plastic of her bag as she pulled out a weathered sandwich. Joan held it up in offering, a light smile on her face. "Here. Looks like you need it more than I do."

His eyes finally moved from her face and down her hunched body. He eyed the stuffed Christmas sweater and faded jeans dully. Her tennis shoes shuffle his blatant examination of her body.

"I think you need it more than me." His voice was not what she expected at all. A deep rumble maybe but instead, it is soft and quick, remarkably clear after its journey through the man's beard.

"Says the guy that hasn't eaten for several days." Joan moved the sandwich closer to his mouth. His eyes had a small spark of surprise in them at her last statement. She sees the filth under his fingernails as he takes the sandwich from her with his right hand and shoves it toward a patch of hair. After a minute, it resurfaced from the hair depths, a large bite of it missing. His eyes remained glued to her face as he ate. It was unnerving.

"The name's Joan." Again, the man was silent, polishing off the food in a matter of five minutes. She had seen hungry men devour disgusting edibles from the trash many times in this life yet this calm eating was foreign to her. It was mannered and dignified, despite the man's general appearance.

"Thank you." The two words had a waterfall of emotion behind them; just by the way they were spoken. It was obvious that the man had a heavy amount of baggage on him. In her watching of him, she couldn't get away from the feeling that he had long lost the will to life and were merely waiting for death to greet him like an old friend. Her heart ached to save him from himself.

Joan stuck out her hand, her aged veins pronounced. "There's more. We've got an empty warehouse a few blocks from here. Could use another set of hands." The man's eyes had a brief flash of an unfathomable emotion. He made no move to reach for her.

She waited, her hand getting goose bumps from the cool air around them.

Sloth – like, he placed his hand cautiously into hers. It was callous and hard as if he washed his hands in sawdust daily. His knuckles had scabs and she suddenly had the feeling he had been in several fights.

The way he struggled to get upright, however, changed her mind. As he swayed to the left, she wrapped one of her arms around his waist and gave him a tug toward the exit of the alley. A groan of agony escaped his lips and a hand flew to his forehead.

"Hangover." He said coarsely. He dragged his feet as they walked on the sidewalk. Joan could feel him breathing on top of her head, his greasy locks tickling her forehead as he leaned on her for support.

She didn't respond but gritted her teeth slightly at his weight. She wasn't as strong as she used to be and this man seemed to be pure muscle. It took a while for them to reach the warehouse door, where a young woman with a harmonica looked up from her half eaten drumstick.

"Look what the cat dragged in." She made no effort to help Joan as she hastily dumped the barely conscious man unto a sheet of cardboard. He landed awkwardly on his shoulder, a crack of bone audible.

The woman with the drumstick leered at the tall bundle of clothing and nudged him with her foot. "Does it have a name?" Her voice had a tone of disinterest.

"John." He managed to wheeze out as he gripped his shoulder in dizzy pain before everything went black.

**A/N – I have an idea to make this a series of one-shots based on Reese's hobo days. Not sure yet though. Depends on the interest.**

**Also, I need a website to backup my fanfiction besides Tumblr and I'm debating between WordPress and LiveJournal. If you had a suggestion, please leave it in your review or PM me, I would appreciate it.**


	2. Chapter 2

The beard didn't suit him but he kept it as another barrier in the fortress he forced himself into. For the first month or so, John never said anything except for answering yes or no questions. Even those, he tried to avoid at all costs. Sometimes he would disappear for a few days and return with some form of supplies, food or extra clothing and blankets. The one thing he never parted with was his checkered orange and white quilt that Joan found him in. He slept with it and kept it neatly folded on top of his cardboard every morning.

It was a Tuesday night, the dark crisp with the murmur of the homeless, quiet chuckles and crinkling newspaper. Joan was sitting in an upright position and having her hair brushed by Sophia, a fellow friend. John watched the rhythmic strokes of the comb in silence. He found the routine motion soothing, like a hypnotic pendulum. His eyes wandered from the brunette's hand and to the heavy fur coat she worn. Underneath were a skin tight halter top and a mini skirt. It was a small wonder that she never got frostbite in this weather.

Sophia's occupation saddened John more than anything. It was almost offensive how such a sweet woman was forced to do such a thing to help keep herself alive. The money she earned went toward the general population of the warehouse as well, despite Joan's protests. Most of the inhabitants looked to her as a provider rather than a call girl.

"You want your hair brushed too, John?" Sophia's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. His hooded eyes just looked at her hopeful expression. She was one of the only people other than Joan that seemed determined to get him to open up. Neither had been any closer to success since his arrival. His hand automatically lingered to the back of his head. As his fingertips brushed against the split ends, Sophia carefully approached him. He tried to hide back a smile. She had the look of a zoo keeper trying to feed a lion.

He scooted a little bit closer, giving the woman the small amount of encouragement she needed. Nimble in her high heels, she headed over and sat herself down behind John before he could change his mind. Without a warning, she reached out a hand and run it through his hair. His arm jerked toward her but instantly slacked afterward. Ignoring the racing of her heart, Sophia kept her hand rested on his head. Not surprisingly, his hair was tangled from neglect. She didn't even bother asking when as the last time he washed it because in truth, she was afraid what the answer might be. Though he no longer drink himself to death, the man continued to disregard his well being, almost as if to punish himself for something.

John felt the comb teeth press on his scalp and he found himself leaning back at the touch. He had forgotten what it was like to have his hair brushed, especially by someone else. His head bobbed as she worked on a particularly stubborn knot. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Joan hovering over an old fridge door, a foam container in her hand.

"Do you like your hair this long?" He felt uncomfortable as she breathed into his ear. It wasn't meant to be sensual yet all of his training instincts were screaming that it was an interrogation tactic. She went back to combing his hair, clearly not expecting an answer.

"No." The comb paused for a millisecond before continuing his path to the nape of his neck.

"Then why keep it this long…" Her tone of voice had a wonder behind it. He imagined her face held a confused expression.

"Keeps people away." His brutal honesty was surprising himself. Yet he felt he owned Sophia something for all the gentle prying she had been doing for the month he had been here. Hardly anyone paid him any attention unless something needed to be moved or dinner was ready. Not that he minded, to be honest, he was perfectly ok with that sort of calling. But he did appreciate the genuine effort and care she and Joan seemed to have for him.

The call girl doesn't reply but quietly finishes fixing his hair by parting his hair out of his eyes.

"I was wondering where those eyes were buried." Joan grinned at John's new look like a prideful mother. His lip curled to one side as he took the foam container from her and glances inside.

"Chow mien!" Sophia squealed, eagerly dipping her fingers into the pile of noodles and shoving a handful in her mouth. John's lip curled again as he takes some noodles for himself.

**A/N – Yeah, these keep coming to me so I'll try to hold off until I get more feedback xD but this one was calling my name. That and my OC wanted to come out and say hi…**

**Also, sorry for any typos on both chapters, it's late and I'll get them fixed soon.**

**My apologies for my NCIS readers, hopefully my muse will return but for now, I'm addicted to POI.**


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